


Yellow Satin

by Argyle



Category: Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Days in summer are apt to linger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Satin

"Come now, Basil dear. You mustn't protest."

Dorian's laughter was cast in the cool timbre of a morning bell, and though its ring was hushed by the rustle of brocade as he shifted against the settee and crossed his legs, Basil felt a tremor circuit down his spine.

"I have a surprise for you," Dorian continued.

"Oh?" Basil turned, his eyes swiftly moving from the sketch before him to the boy's handsomely poised form. He swallowed, set the rough stick of charcoal to the side of the easel, and dashed the tips of his fingers across the drawing. The oily pigment smudged lightly; shadows and definition unfolded across the paper with each measured turn of his wrist. After a long moment, he ventured, "What sort of surprise?"

"The only sort of surprise worth having."

"Dorian, I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Why, what else but something one already knows is coming?" Dorian stood and strode forward, a smile grazing across his mouth. With a languid movement, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a cigarette from a silver case. Then he softly set a hand to Basil's shoulder, and said, "A holiday would do you an immense amount of good, I'm certain. See? You look as though you've not slept for days, which is probably the case. You're exhausted."

Basil shook his head. "I couldn't. My dear boy, you must understand, I can't simply walk away from my work," he sighed. "Let us go in a week or two."

"Ah, how hideously unfair it is for you to decline! I've already made the proper arrangements." Dorian tightened his grip upon Basil's shoulder, drawing on his cigarette as the painter conceded with a nod. "I say, this no time for a row, but naturally you may bring your pencils if you must."

Basil let out a short laugh. "Where is it you've--"

"Decided upon?" Dorian finished, inclining his head. "Buckinghamshire. It is perfectly delightful at this time of year. My guardians have a cottage in Marlow."

"And will there be... _others_ there?"

"None but you and I."

"Ah! The hyacinths are still in bloom, surely," Basil said, and as though pulled asunder by some unseen force, he pressed against Dorian's grasp. He saw the light in his young subject's eyes, the dawn-drawn curls of his hair. And what soul indeed, he thought, could refuse such a face? Certainly there were none more weak, none more prone to tidal tow, than he. "Perhaps, if we are lucky, it will not rain."

"Without a doubt," the boy chirped, at last taking notice of the drawing that was pinned upon the easel before him. His lips parted slightly, and he exhaled with a thin plume of blue smoke. Fine pleats of chalk and dust formed the very same lips which smiled back at him in dusky hues of brown and gray. Now and again dark lines creased about the eyes and beneath the curl of hair, sloping into the tousled fabric of a huntsman's cloak and the glinting point of a dreadful spear, a wash of stars and earth.

And Dorian stood in silence before the easel, his shoulders moving gently with the weight of his breath. He raised a hand to his forehead and shadowed his eyes against the brilliant midday light of the studio.

"Adonis, my Adonis," Basil whispered at length. It at once seemed that his voice had come across a great distance, over canyons and between unkempt glades, only to tangle against the quick reverberation of blood through his veins. He felt suddenly foolish, and not for the first time. He knew he ought not to compliment the boy so eagerly.

Dorian turned to meet the painter's gaze; his eyes gleamed with laughter. "What does he hunt for?"

"Oh, whatever he sets his heart on, I imagine."

"Would I were so fortunate! It is charming, Basil, utterly charming. Quite the best thing you've done this week."

"It is the _only_ work I've done this week."

"And as I said, the best."

Basil opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. Dorian was tapping a narrow cascade of ashes from his cigarette onto the floor. The boy watched them for several moments with the same interest one might grant an amusing performance at the theatre, and still the flakes broke free of the ruddy ember, fluttering here and there and each to each.

"When are we to depart?" the painter eventually asked.

Dorian blinked. Then he grinned, and said, "To-day."

"You'll have to allow me some time to pack."

"Two hours, and not a minute more!"

Basil allowed himself a smile. "I suppose we'll be taking your brougham."

And indeed they did.

The journey was not without a certain appeal, and though Basil looked forward to catching sight of their lodgings, his most heightened sense of anticipation was reserved for his companion. They sat beside one another, and did so in quite close proximity for much of the journey as Dorian leaned against Basil's thigh to stare out the window, voicing soft exclamations about the landscape as they rode on. Basil could smell the sweet musk of Dorian's skin, and the violet at his buttonhole; he pushed his hands into his pockets so they would not shake.

"You've been there before," he said in an idle moment. It was not a question.

Dorian nodded. "Countless times," he sighed. "I am happy there, Basil, truly happy. It is a place wrought from gold, from sunlight and spice. I cannot dream of what sort of person I would have become without it."

Very much the same, Basil thought. So great a character would surely not be altered by one element of fortune or another, but rather, like some elaborate crown of jewels or the beaded mask of a primordial chieftain, it was the sum of myriad kindnesses. The natural world would fill in the gaps until no missing memory could be found.

And all the while, as the painter watched Dorian's bright face and long, dove-white hands, he was silent.

When they at last arrived at Marlow, the warm summer sun had long since crept towards the darkening folds of the horizon. Dorian snaked his arm about Basil's, and they clamored together from the cab. "You will so love the botanical gardens, Basil! I never imagined there were so many sorts of vines before I happened to discover them there."

"To-morrow," Basil said. "There will be time enough."

"I'm glad you've had such a change of heart. There is never enough time for you while you are in your studio, or so you would have me believe."

Basil smiled and shook his head. "It is the country air, no doubt."

"Ah, and of course you'll want to use it to your advantage, painting day in and day out," cried Dorian. "You needn't say otherwise. I understand perfectly."

"I won't work if it bothers you. This _is_ a holiday, as you were so fond of pointing out."

"And you will be miserable for it! How utterly distressing you are!"

"Only in favorable company."

Dorian laughed at this, as Basil knew he would, and it was to the strain of this sound that they crossed over the threshold of the wide-windowed cottage. A meal of mild distinctiveness was prepared for them; they ate with relish and talked with ease.

But as the night drew on, the shiver of uncertainty which swept through Basil's limbs grew ever more pronounced. He listened to the magical tones of Dorian's voice, and stared at his beauty as it was lit gold by the flames. Then, quite suddenly and with the sort of surprise which Dorian had so recently described to him, that which lingers in the hazy realm of foreknowledge, he asked himself of what enchantments Dorian might be capable, and what power he might choose to exert should Basil fall.

Basil threw back the dregs of his glass, and asked, "Why have you brought me here?"

"I told you," said Dorian Gray, after a thoughtful pause. "It is because I've been happy here. I wanted to share it with you." His cheeks took on a flush then, and it was not due to the wine, or not only: he looked into Basil's eyes with the earnest intent of friendship.

The painter's heart beat furiously. He knew there was nothing false in Dorian's statement, and so he said, quite simply, "Thank you, Dorian. You've brought more joy to my life than you'll ever know."

Dorian narrowed his eyes. Then he said in a light, melodic, and emboldened tone, "You're drunk, Basil."

And Basil could not argue with him. It was perfectly true that he had consumed more than a fare share of claret, but indeed Dorian might well have called him Cleopatra and garnered the same careworn response. He arched his back, and dashed a hand across his brow; the candlelight yet cast Dorian's features in gilded porcelain, and Basil knew his instincts were not to be trusted. He yawned gapingly, feeling his eyes well up with the effort, and only after catching sight of Dorian's grin did he manage to murmur an apology.

"I trust you'll find your rooms suitable. The curtains are yellow satin, did you notice? Why, they might console a man for all the miseries of life. It is like a fairytale -- or better still: it is like reality, and as though one was drowning in honey!"

Of course Basil had noticed, though he had spent but a moment in his dressing room to prepare for dinner. The dying light had shone through their thin filaments at such an angle as to make him feel that he stood amongst the footlights of a tinderbox stage, and now, as he held his breath in the darkness and listened to the retreating echo of Dorian's footsteps down the hall, he dreaded what monsters the long night might summon out from the wings.

Although he undressed and pulled the bedclothes up to his chin, and although he was tired beyond reason, he slept but fleetingly. Now and then he called forth snippets of conversation to wade through the pools of darkness and distraction, and he was only aware of the passage of time through the hollow chime of the distant church tower.

At dawn, he padded out from his room, one hand held to the wall for guidance. He imagined he would uncover some delightful place to unfold his easel. The servants were awake, no doubt, and he would have his tea delivered to him outside. But then again, no: he felt he must not intrude upon Dorian's good humor. And then again, there was Dorian seated beside the tall window in his room, drinking up the sight of the sunrise as though it was the nectar of paradise.

Basil watched him for several minutes, looked here at Dorian's fair, star-dappled brow and bedraggled hair, there at the still petals of his lips and the shadowed curve of his throat. His hands were held in repose, open and calm upon his lap; his feet were pale and unshod.

He turned then, and smiled sleepily. "Hello Basil."

Basil swallowed, took a step forward, and then paused. A wave of dread seized his heart. He knew then what he must do. He knew then that all of his previous work had been but a halfhearted prelude to what must follow. "Would you allow me to paint your portrait?" he asked with what was almost a gasp.

"You have, Basil. Adonis and Adrian and Paris and heaven knows who else," the boy laughed, and extended his hand to the painter. Basil met him by the wide glass panes, quite cautiously at first, and then with the ecstasy of definition and purpose.

"No," he said. "It must be of Dorian."

And Dorian laughed at that, as Basil knew he would. "To-morrow," the boy said. "There will be time enough."


End file.
